


Milkshakes and Meetings

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, People Watching, Routine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26973577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Brock has a routine. Jack puts a stop to that.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Milkshakes and Meetings

Friday nights in small towns had a special kind of energy, like a buzz of low volt energy. Stonewall had its own culture, like it was frozen back in a simpler time when men labored and most women didn’t. There was still Hannah in the post office with her broad shoulders and freckles and young Rina who worked mornings at the general store. Peter and his wife Jenny ran the hardware store. But most women preferred domestics, raising children, tending to a household and keeping their husbands in line. Brock came from the edge of town from a family of dairy farmers. His father could afford him a bit of pay for the work he did and so on Fridays, he’d come into town and go to the diner for a strawberry milkshake and sweet potato fries. No one really knew Brock, he was like paint on the wall really, and he didn’t mind that. Not really. He liked to observe, to watch those around him and see what life off a farm was like. Brock liked their voices too; you grew tired of listening to the same ones and the bellows of cows. 

“ -- so I fuckin’ grab the scaffolding that Brian’d put together last week…” 

Brock grew tired of the construction talk. He looked out the window to assure Clair the mare was still tied up the post railing. Brock wasn’t sure if horses were even supposed to be here but no one had ever complained so he took that as permission. Brock twirled the straw around in the old fashion glass, brown eyes scouting the room. The couple he’d noticed the past two weeks had unfortunately not survived because the brunette girl with a pixie cut and a button nose was with the electrician with curly hair whose name escaped him. They seemed happy. Brock molded his lips around the straw. The waitress, Leeann came back, the only one who really noticed him. She was a busty woman, short but sweet with flyway blond hair she’d tried to tame (without success) into a bun. 

“There you go sweetheart.” 

Brock said his thanks and took a hot fry and took a bite. He was checking on Clair when he noticed the man. He was tall, thumbs tucked into his pocket. He was wearing a tan Carhartt jacket, T1 WerkPants and a navy cap with Rollins Plumbing & Heating stitched in white. He was staring at Clair and Clair was staring back. Brock wasn’t sure why it alarmed him, but it did. He was about to get up but the guy instead moved towards the door. Clair went back to cleaning up the weeds bordering the building and Brock picked up another fry. The bell jingled and the party free off work looked over whooped. 

“Lookit who finally decided to hang out with all us losers.” 

“The King is here among the peasants.” 

“Fuck’n’a Jack, since when do you see us after work?” 

“Alright, alright,” he said. Brock thought he had a nice voice. “Only reason I’m here is cos I forgot to take out my ribeye.” 

There was a groan of sympathy among the group. 

“Fuckin’ tragic.” The one with dark hair cut buzzed almost completely off to battle the hot sun said. 

“You kiss your wife with that mouth? There’s a lady here.” 

“Oh, Jack, I’m far from a lady you know it,” Leeann contributed and the group laughed. 

Brock slipped the straw between his lips and sucked slowly, attention back on the couple. Their hands were both on the table, a bit of space between them that could only be breached by Curly -- Pixie wasn’t interested in being the one to initiate. She wanted to be won over the way most women did. And if Curly didn’t figure that out soon, Pixie would be dining with another suitor next week. He looked out the windows. He liked the booths because this whole side of the diner was windows. He leaned against the red booths and watched Clair for a moment. She was a beautiful horse, an American Paint that he’d gotten as a filly when he was thirteen. Now, four years later, she had kind eyes, a calm demeanor and a drive to please. They were a pair, the two of them. Thick as thieves, best friends. They shared a relationship only a man and horse could form. 

The late sunlight bounced off the metal napkin dispenser and a pool of light glowed in the center of the table. The diner had stood across from the sheriff’s office for longer than Brock had been alive and had stood before his parents got married in ‘62. Brock through it ought to be deemed a historical building. It had a jukebox but it had long since stopped working. Now it was a reminder of a different era. 

Brock was jerked out of his thoughts when Leeann appeared. “Everything okay?” 

“Mmhm,” Brock said with a nod. 

She smiled, teeth slightly strained from nicotine and too much coffee, and told him to give a holler if he needed anything at all. He promised but he wouldn’t need anything. He had everything he wanted, and needed, in front of and around him. There wasn’t a cinema in town, it was in the next county, a forty minute drive, and he didn’t have enough to afford a ticket and gas so he made life his entertainment. He was at the real life theater, all the characters unaware that they were being watched. He didn’t have popcorn but that was okay, he was never one for it anyway. 

“What’s the deal with the horse?” Brock heard Jack Rollins ask and he quickly turned his attention from Curly and Pixie to the group sitting at the counter. “Belongs to -- hey kid!” 

Brock wasn’t supposed to be part of the entertainment, he was supposed to sit back. Be quiet, disappear. 

“Kid,” Shaved Head said again and Brock gulped before peeking around the booth. 

“Hi.” 

“He’s askin’ ‘bout your horse.”

“Oh.” Brock slowly locked eye contact with the guy who had been staring at her earlier. “Hi?” 

Jack Rollins scrutinized him, looking him and down. “You’re from the farm, right?” 

How did he know that? “Um, yes.” 

“I didn’t know they had horses too. Just cows, I thought.” 

“We have fifteen hundred cows,” Brock said because this he could talk about. He knew this, they were facts. “Jerseys, Brown Swiss and Shorthorns.” 

“Uh-huh. Didn’t hear horses in that.” 

“Oh.” Brock glanced at Clair. She looked at him, as if knowing he was uncomfortable. “Clair is mine.” 

“Clair?” 

“Clair the mare,” he said before he could think. 

Shaved Head snorted but Jack looked at him and he stopped. “Damn nice looking horse.” The kindness cushioned being laughed at, but only for a little. “Whatcha got there? A milkshake? Well Sean will be buying another one, won’t you?” 

Shaved Head nodded his head. “Yup.” 

“I don’t need -- ”

“Well it’s just rude to refuse a gift,” Jack said. “Sean is just so excited to buy you one -- hell, he wants together you a burger to go with it.” 

“Ah, Jack -- ”

“Don’t you?” 

Sean nodded sullenly. The rest of the party was quiet and Brock was angry. Jack had ruined his favorite weekly activity. He was still fuming when a second strawberry milkshake was delivered along with a burger. It looked good but he was too upset to enjoy what he normally couldn’t afford. He stared at the burger for a bit, waiting for the conversation to kick back up and it did once Jack began to complain about people in the next county who were too stupid to know they needed to have their septic pumped every two years. Bushy Mustache, named for obvious reasons, objected that he hadn’t pumped his in three years and everything was working just fine. Jack called him a goddamn fool and threatened to refuse to help him when it and that he hopes he’ll have to redo his drainage field, costing him thrice what a pumping would cost. Bushy Mustache promised to make an appointment on Monday. 

Shaved Head had always been lead among them but now Jack was there it was clear who the alpha really was. Brock, confident attention had been taken off of him, grabbed the glass bottle of ketchup and tapped it onto his bun. He cut the burger in half, then in quarters. He was on to his second quarter -- Curly had finally mustered the courage to hold her hand and was now moving his thumb in intimate circles on top of her. His burger hadn’t arrived with onions -- he was clearly aiming to kiss her. 

“Have you had her long?” 

Brock jumped, nearly dropping his burger. Jack was standing there, looking out the window. “Clair?” he asked stupidly, trying to slow down his heart rate. “You scared me.” 

“Sorry. You’re a regular around here, aren't’ you?” 

“Every Friday,” he agreed. 

“Ah. I come out on Saturdays which is why I’ve never seen you.” 

Saturdays the haulers came and Brock needed to be home and by the end of the day he was too tired to come back into town. “I -- we’re busy Saturdays.” 

“I’d say. Dairy farming is no joke.” 

It certainly wasn’t but it was necessary. “No, I guess it isn’t.” 

“So when you’d get her?” 

“Four years ago. She was just a filly then.” Brock set the burger down and wiped the ketchup off his fingers. 

She had tobiano colorings, fawn and white. Jack continued to stare out the window and Brock wasn’t sure what to make of it. “Mind if I eat with you?” 

Brock opened his mouth to object, to ask for a go box and run home to where things were as they were supposed to be. Instead he said, “Okay.” 

Jack had already ordered because Leeann brought out the chicken fried steak with a look of surprise she didn’t bother hiding. “Well look at that! I have’t’a say I’ve never seen anyone eat him,” she announced. “Good, the boy needs to socialize some.” 

Brock’s face burned. He didn’t take his solitude as a bad thing. It was his purpose of coming to this outdated diner, why he kept his mouth shut and ordered the same thing. “Thanks, Leeann.” 

She hummed in acknowledgement and went back to the counter. The group didn’t seem to notice he’d left, carrying on with embellished stories about the week. “So people watching, hm?” 

“What?” 

“I saw you watching me when I was looking at your horse out there. And when I came in you watched us.” 

Now he said it outloud like that it sounded creepy. “I’m sorry.” 

“If anyone should be apologizing it’s me. I didn’t mean to draw attention to you.” 

Brock appreciated the apology but he wondered if he could recover from it. “‘s okay.” 

“Say, let me make it up to you,” Jack said. “How about we go people watch somewhere more exciting.” 

There was comfort in being there, in watching the same people he’d known over the years. “More exciting?” 

“There’s a Walmart in Granitestown.” 

That was a long drive, an hour and a half from Stonewall. He went once a year, before school, to get new sneakers and a few shirts if this budget allowed for it. “You’d take me all the way to Walmart just watch people?” 

“Well, to make up for the long drive, how about we stop at Texas Roadhouse? They don’t have milkshakes but they make steaks -- and burgers or whatever you want -- to die for. How does that sound?” 

Brock was starting to get the suspicion that it wasn’t just a friendly offer. So he picked up a fry, nibbling at the end before he looked up, a bit surprised to find he had green eyes. He’d expected something brown or black. It was a pleasant surprise and strangely fitting. 

“Sounds like a date.” Brock said. 

Jack nodded his head. “Yeah, and how’s that sound?” 

Brock looked out at Clair and then back at Jack. “It sounds good.”


End file.
